


Lose the Battle (Win the War)

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-07
Updated: 2009-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:05:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross discovers fandom. Then he goes a little bit crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose the Battle (Win the War)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Canon-fuckery. (Girlfriends? What girlfriends? Everyone apparently lives in Vegas! *hands* Whatever, you guys, if only these were the biggest problems this story had.)

The email comes through two days after the end of the tour.  Ryan blames the familiar aimless boredom that always fills those first post-tour days for the fact that he even bothers to open the attachment.

 

The subject line says nothing more than _"lolololol,'_ which is typically Pete, and there isn't any text in the email itself to offer any more of a clue than that.  Ryan clicks on the attached Word document and downloads the file.

 

**_Snowbound!_** reads the title of the document, stretched across the page in gleeful, 26-pt font. 

 

Beneath it, in a much more normal size, is:

 

** _Author: panic_boysexxxes15 _ **

** _Rating: NC17 _ **

** _Disclaimer: This probably never happened.  If it did, the boys aren't talking. _ **

** _Pairing:  GSF _ **

** **

**_Summary:  An unexpected blizzard leaves the boys snowed in on the morning after a hotel night.  Whatever will they do to amuse themselves?_ **

 

Ryan rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts, closes out of the file, and replies to Pete with an annoyed, _Oh my god, dude, get a fucking life.  Loser._

 

He can practically hear Pete's loud, braying laughter ringing in his ears, all the way from LA.  Sometimes it's hard to believe that idiot was ever one of Ryan's heroes.

 

—

 

Sleeplessness finds him back in front of the computer at three in the morning, watching two Asian dudes in a dorm room perform elaborately-choreographed lip sync routines on YouTube.  There are approximately twelve million clips, and Ryan has been fairly systematically working his way through _all _of them.  The videos are moderately funny, but so far, Ryan's primary source of entertainment has been watching the Faceless Unflappable Roommate, who is sitting calmly in the background of every single clip, dicking around on his computer, entirely unfazed by the epic displays of idiocy happening four feet behind his head.  Ryan is fascinated by that guy.  He is a little oasis of mellow, surrounded by hyperactive fucktards.  He is the Jon Walker of the Crazy Asian Camwhore dorm room.

 

When Ryan finally runs out of videos to watch, the clock informs him that it is 3:26 in the morning, and he's had _I Want It That Way _stuck in his head for a worryingly long time.  He'll probably be singing it for a week and a half.

  
It's possible that Pete isn't the only one who needs to get a life.

 

Thinking of Pete reminds Ryan of the stupid email, and that ridiculous Word file is staring back at him from his screen before he even realizes he's opening it.  Obviously, insomnia and relative isolation are a bad combination for Ryan, if he's already gone crazy enough to even _consider _reading this crap, but—well, what else is he going to do?  He remembers the early days, when fans were first starting to write stories about them, they used to sit around on the bus with Ryan's laptop and laugh themselves sick. 

 

It's late; he's bored and maybe kind of lonely.  He could use a laugh.

 

—

 

It's five-thirty in the morning before Ryan surfaces.  He feels weird—queasy and guilty and turned-on—and his head is filled with uncomfortable impressions:  Brendon's fingers skating down Spencer's chest; Jon's mouth, open and panting against Brendon's neck; Spencer's thigh pushing forcefully between Ryan's legs.  There's more, lots more; darker, hotter images—mouths and cocks and hands, Brendon's head tossed back against the pillows while Ryan pushes inside, Ryan on his hands and knees with Spencer flush against his back, filling him up, hot and hard and thrusting, Jon whispering filthy suggestions at Spencer in a low rough voice while he fucks his mouth—but even Ryan's subconscious is shying away from those, flashing warning lights behind his eyes whenever his thoughts dance too close.

 

That—isn't what he remembers those fanfics being like.

 

Mostly, he remembers a lot of bad grammar and worse spelling, and page after page of prose so purple and cloying that it defied all reason.  They'd spent weeks actually talking like that on the bus, just for fun.  ("Brendon, my love?  Did you steal my Cheetos..._the way you stole my heart?"_) 

 

This.  This story wasn't like that at all.  It was... It was.

 

Ryan doesn't have words for what this story was.

 

He's breathing heavier than he should be, and his skin feels hot—flushed and scratchy—and his mouth is dry, and he's _hard, _and God, this is _so fucked up._  He isn't—he can't believe he actually _read—_he...he just. 

 

How in the fuck is he ever going to look any of them in the face again?

 

His stomach is churning as he shuts off his computer.  He wants to go to bed, wants to crawl beneath the covers and yank his pillow over his head and pretend he never saw that, never read it, never _liked _it, but—

 

If he goes to bed now, he's going to jerk off and he fucking well knows it.

 

He goes to the living room instead, and spends the next fifty-six minutes watching an infomercial about miraculous new window-washing technology for the home.  Mostly, Ryan thinks it looks like a squeegee on a big stick.  It's boring as fuck; he deserves the punishment.

 

It's nearly seven before he staggers back to his bedroom and falls, face-first, onto the bed.  Even the squeegee hasn't totally quelled the random bursts of imagery in his head, or the constant, low-level buzz of guilty arousal humming across his skin and pooling in his stomach, and he gives in, hiding his burning face against his pillow and fisting himself in a series of quick, rough strokes.

 

He comes to thoughts of Brendon's mouth and Jon's hands and Spencer's blue, blue eyes.  Then he kicks off his pants and messy boxers, yanks the blankets up over himself without even bothering to clean up, squeezes his eyes closed as tight as he can, and desperately begs himself not to remember any of this when he wakes up.

 

—

 

He remembers.

 

He tries hiding out in his house for the day, brushing off Jon and Spencer when they call, sending terse, one-word replies to Brendon's incessant text messages. 

 

Shame is a thick, prickling blanket over his skin, a heavy metallic taste at the back of his tongue.  It's stupid, because it isn't like he's never jerked off to thoughts of his best friends before.  It isn't...it isn't, like, a _thing, _it's just—he's a guy, it happens, Ryan probably barely even _knows _anybody he hasn't thought about idly while jerking off a time or two.  That's just kind of part of life.

  
But, okay.  The thing is, those times—those weren't _fantasies._  Not really, not like this.  Those were...like, just sometimes, late at night, he can hear Brendon jerking off in his bunk.  He tries to be quiet, but he's the worst at it out of all of them—he just sort of can't seem to help getting carried away, and then all the little quiet noises get a little bit louder, skin on skin and sharp panting breaths, and then there's the low, muffled sound he always makes right as he comes.  Half-moan, half-grunt, sort of shaky and stifled, like he's covering his mouth with his hand.

 

Ryan can't help hearing him.  And yeah, so sometimes he gets off to it, whatever, but it's just—it's just about the sound of it, sex sounds are always hot, and Ryan isn't immune to that.  But it isn't a fantasy, it isn't really _Brendon _that's getting him off, it's just the sounds Brendon is _making._

 

And there was the time he walked in on Jon and that girl, and it was hot, okay, and he'd pictured it sometimes later, when he was alone, but it was—it was still _Jon and that girl, _it wasn't ever _Jon and Ryan._

 

It is now, though.  It's Jon and Ryan, and it's Spencer and Brendon, and it's Brendon and Jon, and Ryan and Spencer—_God, _Ryan and _Spencer, _what the fuck is _wrong _with him?—and it's _SpencerRyanBrendonJon,_ and Pete can seriously go fuck himself for even doing this to Ryan, and so can panic_boysexxxes15, for that matter, because nothing is ever going to be okay, ever again.

 

His plan to avoid everyone for all of time doesn't last very long, once he realizes that hiding out alone in his house leaves him...like.  Alone in his house.  And there's nothing to do, and his computer is seriously _mocking _him, and around the time he figures out that he's actually considering re-reading the goddamned thing, he calls up Spencer and demands they have a Halo tournament or something, because if he doesn't find some way to stop thinking, he is seriously going to kill himself.

 

Spencer must have some idea that Ryan has something he needs to forget—(thank fuck he doesn't ask what it _is, _Jesus)—because he pauses for like five seconds and then makes a counter-suggestion.

 

"How about we make Jon bring his stash and just get fucked up instead?"

 

Ryan considers.  "Yeah," he finally decides.  "That's even better."

 

 

—

 

 

A heavy haze of smoke drifts lazily through the room.  Ryan feels mellow, loose-limbed and liquid in the way that pot always makes him feel.

  
They haven't smoked in awhile.  Ryan wonders if maybe he's overdone it a bit, actually, because his brain-to-mouth filter seems to be malfunctioning.

 

"What's it like?" he hears himself ask Brendon, stretching languidly.  "Gay sex?"

 

It's weird, because he feels mildly embarrassed by the question even as he's asking it, and some small part of his brain is shrieking at him to shut up before he ends up blurting out the whole sordid fanfic story for everyone to hear, but before he can really give the thought the attention it deserves, he gets distracted by Brendon's reaction.

 

"Are you _kidding _me?" Brendon squeaks, wide-eyed and half-incredulous.  For some reason, Spencer bursts out laughing.

 

"What?" Ryan demands.  Across the room, even Jon has dragged himself into a sitting position, looking interested.

 

For a minute, Spencer is laughing too hard to answer, and Brendon has covered his face with his hands and is breaking out in giggles, himself.  Ryan is starting to get a little bit testy.

 

"Seriously," he insists.  "_What?_  It's not that funny of a question!"

 

Brendon and Spencer exchange a series of complicated facial expressions, which ends with Spencer sort of shrugging, a wide, half-embarrassed grin still curving his mouth.  Brendon's cheeks are flushed, and he laughs again.

 

"Um," says Spencer awkwardly.  "It's...pretty good, actually."  He pauses, and then adds, "Gay sex, I mean."

 

Ryan's jaw drops.

 

"Holy _shit,_" murmurs Jon.  "You and _Brendon?"_

 

Ryan can only make a vague squeaking sound.  His lazy high is dissolving at what seems to be the speed of light.

 

"I was Spencer's 'experimental phase,'" Brendon puts in cheerfully.  Spencer shoves his shoulder with an affectionate huff, and Brendon snickers.  "One crazy weekend last year.  He's a _very _good student."

 

He leers exaggeratedly at Spencer, who bursts out laughing again.

 

"How...?"  Ryan forces his voice to work.  "How did we not _know _about this?"

 

Spencer ducks his head, cheeks pink.  He's smiling.  "I was curious," he admits.  "And I figured, 'Hey, Brendon knows what he's doing, and I trust him, and...'  It just sort of made sense, so."  He shrugs sheepishly.  "I asked."

 

Ryan's brain is a little busy exploding, so he's grateful when Jon is the one to demand, "You just, like, _asked?_  Hey, Brendon, let's have a bunch of gay sex so I can see what it's like?"

 

Brendon is grinning so hard he can barely talk.  "Well, no.  Actually, it was more like—" and he turns directly to face Ryan, his eyes sparkling with wicked amusement, "—_Hey, Brendon.  What's it like?  The gay sex thing?"_

 

Jon and Spencer are both laughing hysterically by now, and Ryan feels like his face is about to burst into flames.  "That isn't—I...I didn't—I wasn't going to ask you—!"

 

"I've got a free weekend coming up," Brendon says playfully, waggling his eyebrows at Ryan.  "I could pencil you in."

 

Spencer is practically laying across Jon's lap by now, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.  Jon is giggling helplessly, himself, and Ryan wants to laugh, too, because it's _funny_—but he can't, quite.  It's too close to home, too close to all the crazy thoughts in his head lately, and he can't...he doesn't....

 

He almost wants to say _yes._

 

"Assholes," he mutters instead, lamely.

 

"From now on, I am going to make you all refer to me as Naughty Gay Yoda," Brendon decides.  "I will take on one apprentice at a time, and train him up in the ways of the Force."  He turns to Ryan again.  "Come, young Jedi.  Much there is to learn."  He winks outrageously.

 

At that, Ryan does crack a smile, although it's probably sort of a sickly one.  "Fuck you."

 

"Strong, the Force is in this one," Brendon tells Jon and Spencer solemnly, or at least as solemnly as any of them can manage right now.  "Learn quickly, he does."

 

Ryan throws himself backward with a sigh, and lets the conversation continue around him without really participating.  He snickers with everyone else when Brendon starts in on Jon, urging him to act now if he wants to join the waiting list for after Ryan, but mostly, Ryan's head is busy spinning with too much new information and too many conflicting thoughts.  He considers sparking up another joint, to help him process everything, but that probably isn't a very good idea.  God only knows what new hell he might unleash this time.

 

Brendon and Spencer.

 

Ryan can place it now, in his head, the weekend they're talking about.  That would be the weekend they disappeared together into Brendon's new house, refusing to answer their phones or go out anywhere, claiming they were working on some very vague but important "drummer stuff, Ryan, it's not really your thing, okay?"

  
Christ.

 

And instead, they'd spent the entire weekend _in bed, _holy fuck, and what must that have been like?  He wants to imagine that it was all awkward and uncomfortable and humiliating, because those mental images would be so much easier for him to deal with, but.  That seems pretty seriously unlikely, considering their behavior since.  And--well, frankly, just considering Brendon himself.  More likely they spent the weekend laughing and playing and just..._enjoying _each other, learning each other, and—

 

Jesus fucking _Christ._

 

Ryan flips over onto his stomach to hide his sudden hard-on.  He closes his eyes tightly, and tries to ignore the powerful pulse of _want _crashing over him in waves.

 

God, this is all so fucked up.

 

—

 

 

It takes four days for Ryan's resolve to break.  He re-reads the stupid story, sitting hunched over in front of his computer with a burning face and a straining cock, mortification and arousal twisting and curling around each other until he can barely tell the difference between them. 

 

He jerks himself off, but slowly, trying to drag out the experience as long as he can.  He's never going to let himself do this again; he has to make this one count.

  
The lie feels hollow even inside his own head, and he pushes the thought away to re-focus on the story.  When he gets to the part where Spencer has Brendon pinned to the bed, spread open and writhing beneath him, sparks go off behind his eyes and he comes without warning over his own fist.

 

God.  He's a sick fuck, seriously.  He can't believe this is his life.

 

He's still sitting there with his cock in his hand when his Sidekick buzzes, and he will probably never know exactly what twisted impulse leads him to actually _answer _it with his free hand, murmuring "Hello?" in a voice he hopes isn't too obviously thick and sex-drugged.

 

"You have to talk to me," Brendon announces imperiously.  "The power is out on my block and they said it's going to be forty-five minutes or something before it comes back on.  Do you have any idea how boring life gets without TV or movies or video games or, like...anything?"

 

Ryan feels weird, sitting here with his cock out and his fist still wrapped around it, Brendon chattering away cluelessly in his ear.  Weird, but sort of... Um.

 

He doesn't move his hand.

 

"You could play," he suggests, keeping his voice carefully level.  "You have seventy-three instruments laying around, you can't amuse yourself for forty-five minutes?"

 

Brendon huffs.  "I _did _play, asshole.  It's been out for an hour and a half already.  Besides, what's with trying to get rid of me?  That's cold, dude."

 

"I'm not trying to get rid of you."  And he isn't.  He _should _be, though.  "What were you playing?  Anything new?"

 

"Not really."  Brendon sighs, and Ryan bites his lip incredulously when his cock actually twitches in his hand.  It has, literally, been less than two minutes.  It is physically impossible for him to be getting hard again already.  "Mostly I just messed around.  Dude, this sucks.  I was totally in the middle of something when my power went out.  Did you know that there's a porno version of YouTube?"

 

For one weird moment, Ryan's brain offers up a confused image of a sudden orgy in the Crazy Asian Camwhore dorm room, and then he clicks to what Brendon is actually saying. 

 

And _then, _he clicks to what Brendon is _actually _saying.

 

"You were jerking off?" he manages, and his voice comes out weird—a little strangled—so he covers as best he can by adding, "And you were too cheap to spring for real porn?  What the fuck?"

 

Brendon laughs, free and loud and easy like he always does, and there's no denying it: Ryan's cock is hardening beneath his palm, slowly but surely.  He hates himself a little.

 

"No, no, dude—you don't even know.  YouTube porn is awesome.  Some of it is _so bad, _man, it's hilarious—"

 

And then Brendon is off, gleefully describing the best and the worst of his YouTube porn adventures.  He's not saying anything particularly explicit, and more than half of the stories are more 'horror' than 'porn,' but.

 

It's _Brendon._  And he's _talking about porn._

 

Ryan moves the handset a little further away from his mouth to hide the hitches in his breathing, and laughs carefully in all the right places, even as his hand picks back up a slow rhythm along his cock.  He pictures Brendon, watching porn and stroking himself.  Then he pictures Brendon stroking Spencer.  _Then, _he pictures Brendon stroking _him, _and fuck, it's getting hard to concentrate on Brendon's actual words anymore.

 

"—which is bad enough, right, because okay, food sex is only hot under _very specific circumstances, _and like.  Peanut butter is never, ever one of those circumstances.  You know?  So, but there they go, and the blonde guy keeps just _smearing _it all over the dark-haired guy's chest, only he totally has _chest hair, _right, which looks _way grosser than anything, _by the way, all matted down with peanut butter—and then he starts trying to, like, _lick it off._  And you can tell he totally thought this would be sexy, but it completely isn't, but he isn't totally _sure _that it completely isn't?  Like, maybe it's still hot for the guy getting licked, or whatever?  But _that _guy just looks bored, because—okay, _peanut butter, _he probably can't even feel the licking that _is _going on, plus the blonde guy keeps having to stop and swallow like a hundred times, and they're both taking it _so, so seriously, _which is hilarious because all I could do was sit there and think about how much this was making me need a glass of milk, okay—"

 

Ryan tips his head back, squeezes his eyes shut, and silently shakes apart to the sound of Brendon's voice.

 

He is a _sick fuck._

 

Brendon just keeps laughing and talking, open and relaxed because _he _isn't some freakish sicko, getting off on listening to one of his best friends describing peanut butter porn.  Ryan finally—_finally_—lets his hand fall away from his cock, grimacing at the mess he's made of himself.

 

He's going to have to figure something out, seriously.  He can't go on like this.

 

—

 

Except, the thing is, he _doesn't _figure anything out.

 

Over the course of the next few days, he re-reads the stupid fanfic three more times, then starts scouring Livejournal for more.  He finds more stories than he knows what to do with—the sheer _number _of people writing porn about him is staggering, it's completely surreal—and although most of them are, like, about specific pairings instead of the whole band, he does manage to find a fair amount of "gsf." 

 

Group.  Sex.  Fic_._  Seriously, how is this Ryan's life? 

 

He saves five more stories into Word files to keep, and tells himself that he isn't really to blame for any of this at all.

 

_Pete_ is.

 

That launches a brief but intense flurry of Google searches for fanfics starring Pete and Patrick, which turn out to exist in gratifying abundance.  He skims for the absolute hottest, filthiest, most pornographic one he can find, and copies a semi-random section of text into the body of an email, because payback is a bitch.  He is especially happy about the graphic, lovingly-detailed description of Patrick's mouth, and all the things Pete has fantasized about convincing Patrick to do with it.

 

He doesn't bother with a subject line or any explanation.  Clicking "send" has never felt so vindictively satisfying.

 

The problem is that revenge, no matter how sweet, does not really do anything to help solve _Ryan's _problem.   

 

If anything, Ryan's problem is getting worse.  He now has a secret (clandestine—ha!) Livejournal account of his own, which he created for the express purpose of friending a bunch of "bandslash" communities, to keep an eye out for when new things come along.  He's actually got a few favorite authors, which, what the fuck, seriously.  But they're good, and if he's going to be a weird sicko loser stalking the internet for porn about himself, he might as well just go with it, so he engages in a series of stealth attacks to raid and pillage the journals of the authors in question, copying every single Panic-related thing they've ever written, no matter what the pairing.

  
He stays up the entire night, that night, and reads them all in one go.

 

He hadn't really realized that the situation could actually get any _more _dire than it already was, but that is exactly what is happening now.  Most of the short little group fics he'd been reading were—largely—just porn.  Porn that was obviously written by women, sure, and there were plenty of gooey cuddles and stuff thrown in for good measure, but Ryan can hardly hold that against anybody.  These people can only work with what they're given, after all, and Ryan himself would be hard-pressed to think of a generally cuddlier group of people than his band.  He makes a mental note to worry about that a little bit sometime. 

 

Anyway, the point is that the stories are porn, and they're hot, and they are really messing with Ryan's perceptions of the rest of his band, and that was _plenty bad enough, _thank you very fucking much.

 

The pairing stories, though....

 

It isn't like the authors really know them, so most everything is either totally made up or culled from various interviews and stuff, but that doesn't stop the really perceptive ones from occasionally nailing the characterization directly on the head, or describing some aspect of life on a tour bus so perfectly it seems impossible they've never been there, and it is really starting to mess with Ryan's ability to separate fantasy and reality.

 

And.  _And._  Worse than that, the pairing stories seem to be _longer, _and more _romantic, _and Ryan ought to be laughing his ass off at them but instead he's sitting around his bedroom at two in the morning with zombie-eyes and a hanging-open mouth, thinking things like, _Yeah, Brendon does kind of smile like sunshine, _and holy shit, Ryan wishes he was dead.

 

The morning after his revenge-smut email to Pete, not to mention the ensuing all-night fanfic bender and everything that entailed, Spencer materializes in Ryan's bedroom doorway, wearing a concerned scowl that Ryan cannot remember ever having found specifically sexy before.  

 

He hastily closes his internet browser, and both of the open Word documents. 

 

"Well?" Spencer demands, when Ryan doesn't say anything. 

 

"Well, what?"  Ryan tries to act like he has no idea what Spencer is upset about, but Spencer can most likely see through it.  Years of friendship have forged kind of a special connection between— 

 

Oh, mother_fuck._  Now even his brain-voice is doing it.  That is _it, _seriously.  He's totally quitting the fanfic.  For real, this time. 

 

"_Well,_"  Spencer says bitchily, "where the fuck have you been for the last five days, and why do you appear to have given up showering, and also, is that a lifestyle choice you are going to expect us to support on the bus?  Because I think you should know I am vetoing that _right the fuck now._" 

 

Ryan looks away, guilty and uncomfortable.  "I've just been busy," he says, and then, when Spencer rightfully eyes his pyjamas with open suspicion, amends it to, "Not feeling very good.  You know." 

 

Spencer narrows his eyes.  "I swear to God, Ryan Ross, if you are avoiding me because you found out about the thing with Brendon, I'll—" 

 

"What?"  Ryan prays he isn't blushing.  "No!  Fuck you, dickface, you know me better than that.  I was making out with boys a hell of a long time before you decided to see what playing for the other team was like." 

 

Slightly mollified, Spencer shrugs.  He still isn't relaxing the scowl, though.  "Yeah, well, it didn't stick or whatever with you, and then you found out about me and Brendon and started avoiding me like crazy, so I figured I'd better check, because if you were freaking out—" 

 

"You'd have had to kill me, yeah," Ryan fills in flatly.  "Which, you know, I can totally see why you worried, what with how I've always had such a problem with Brendon's orientation, on top of which, who the fuck says it didn't stick with me?" 

 

Spencer seems nonplussed by this line of questioning.  "I just assumed," he admits.  "You never did anything more than kiss, really, and you haven't even done that much in more than a year.  I figured you were out of your phase, or whatever." 

 

Ryan fights a semi-hysterical urge to prove to Spencer just _exactly _how gay he seems to be these days, by showing off his new stash of secret reading material, but fortunately, he hasn't gone quite _that _crazy yet. 

 

"You have no idea," is all he mutters, and then he stands up and starts digging through his dresser for clean pyjamas.  "Whatever, I'm going to shower, and I don't give a fuck about your big gay weekend with Brendon, so you can let yourself out.  I'm fine, I'll call you later." 

 

He _isn't _fine, and he knows it, but he doesn't grab Spencer and throw him up against the wall for a sudden kamikaze makeout on his way past, which at least four fanfics have already assured him would _totally work, _so he counts it as a general win, and locks himself in the bathroom. 

 

He jerks off under the shower to thoughts of Spencer's sexy scowl, and what it might feel like to kiss it, and Jon's stubbly cheeks, and Brendon's sunshine smile.   

  
Somehow, that's more disturbing than any of the times he's jerked off to Panic at the Disco porn. 

 

— 

 

Ryan's sidekick wakes him up from a sound—and much-needed—sleep.  His alarm clock informs him that the time is 4:16 am. 

 

"What," he snaps without looking.  His voice is rough, his tongue thick and unwieldy and apparently glued to the roof of his mouth. 

 

"Mother_fucker,_" Pete snarls in his ear, and even half-asleep, Ryan can't help starting to laugh.  "This is not fucking _funny, _Ross!  Patrick was _sitting right next to me _when I opened that fucking thing!  He fucking _read _it over my shoulder, you dick!" 

 

Ryan laughs and laughs and laughs, and hangs up the phone without another word. 

 

— 

 

Spencer's visit has left Ryan feeling guilty all over again, this time for entirely different reasons.  He starts trying to be more sociable with the guys—it isn't _their _fault he's suddenly come over all deviant and weird—but it's kind of an uphill climb.

 

It's just that everything seems so _fraught, _now.  He can't look any of them in the eye at all anymore; he's completely paranoid that they'll _know, _somehow, like maybe they'll just look at him and be able to magically see exactly what he's been doing with his time.  The slightest hint of physical contact makes him skittish and jumpy.  Memories—incredibly detailed, word-for-word memories—of fragments of fanfics keep popping into his head at the most inopportune moments, complete with full visual images, usually while he's in the middle of some innocuous conversation with one of the major starring characters.  Plus, something prickly and uncomfortable has started happening in his stomach every time he happens across a jar of peanut butter. 

 

It's a tense, uneasy time, made much worse by the knowledge that there is only a week left before they're heading out for the European leg of their tour.  Living on a bus under these conditions is...unthinkable.  Ryan has no idea what he's going to do.

 

Also, Spencer keeps _watching _him, all concerned and, like.  _Speculative._  And if anybody stands a chance of guessing what Ryan's trying so hard to hide, it's definitely Spencer.  The problem is, Ryan has no idea how to go about doing a better job of hiding it from him—he's never really bothered to learn how to hide shit from _Spencer._  Ryan just has to hope that this particular secret is actually weird enough that nobody could ever really guess it, even if they knew to try.

 

With all this worrying and obsessing Ryan has been doing about Spencer, and about Brendon, and about SpencerandBrendon, it's funny that Jon Walker turns out to be the first one to almost make him break.

 

He just turns up quietly at Ryan's door, carrying a six-pack of beer for himself and a six-pack of watermelon-flavored wine coolers for Ryan—he secretly loves them, don't judge, they just taste nice, okay?—and the entire Lord of the Rings Extended Edition trilogy on DVD.

 

"Let's have a movie marathon, Ryan Ross," he says simply, when Ryan opens the door. 

 

Ryan steps aside and lets him in.

 

Jon doesn't ask any questions, doesn't say much of anything at all, really, all the way through all forty-seven-or-however-the-hell-many hours of movie.  But Ryan can recognize the concern and the offer to listen in pretty much every shuffle of his funny bare feet.

 

And the crazy thing is, Ryan sort of wants to take him up on it.

 

He _can't, _obviously, he isn't insane.  But he wants to, and that's enough to freak him the fuck out all by itself.  It's just that Jon's just _sitting _there, looking all calm and mellow and sensible and reliable and exactly like the kind of person you could say anything to, and it would be okay.  The kind of person you could, theoretically, look at and say, "So, okay, I'm addicted to internet porn stories about me having sex with you.  And Brendon.  And Spencer.  It's making me a little crazy, and I jerked off on the phone with Brendon and there was peanut butter porn and everything is wrong now, and I'm afraid I'm a sick, sick freak and maybe I might need help or something," and he might actually not hate you, or even throw a punch.

 

It's reassuring.  It's comforting.  It's...kind of hot, actually, which is just one more sign that Ryan is a seriously fucked-up individual. 

 

He doesn't say anything.  But he watches the way the muscles in Jon's thighs move under the denim of his jeans, and he totally loses track of the movie because he's busy obsessing about the two-inch gap separating the fingers of his hand from the fingers of Jon's, and eventually, he falls asleep.

 

He wakes up about halfway when Jon starts shifting them both around, stretching them out in a more comfortable position on Ryan's wide sofa, and there's a moment when Ryan finds himself sprawled half over Jon's chest with his nose in Jon's neck, and he sort of wants to kiss him, and he sort of knows he can't, but the reasons why are fuzzy and indistinct, lost somewhere in a haze of half-sleep.

 

He murmurs something confused and unhappy against Jon's throat, and lets the warm hand that comes up to thread through his hair soothe him back to sleep.

 

Jon's gone by the time he wakes up.

 

—

 

The next night is dinner with Spencer's family.  It's a tradition, ever since the first time they ever left to go on tour—there's always a "family" dinner a couple of days before they leave, and attendance is _not _optional.

 

Somehow, and Ryan will probably never really figure out how, the twins manage to get them all involved in an epic _Dance, Dance Revolution_ tournament, which turns out to be both mortifying and hilarious in rather equal measure.

  
None of them have ever played before, although Ryan suspects that Brendon is going to end up owning this game before the week is out.  Ryan, frankly, sucks.  _Hard._  This is basically no surprise to anybody, but he really does try.  He goes up against Crystal in the first round, and she stomps him into the ground without breaking a sweat, chatting casually with Jackie and Brendon in the background the entire time.  Ryan, by contrast, is glowering fiercely at the screen, feeling spindly and unwieldy and embarrassed.  He scowls every time his so-called "friends" dissolve into hysterical giggles behind him, but can't look away from the screen long enough to flip them off.

 

Jon faces Spencer's mom, in one of the most stunningly awesome displays of mutual incompetence the world has ever seen.  Ginger gamely takes her place on the mat, and is obviously making a sincere effort, but can't stop laughing long enough to catch up with the game.  And _Jon._  Jon keeps hopping around the little pad with his hands flailing helplessly in time with his feet, and his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in an expression of earnest concentration.  He looks like a demented monkey.  Nobody can breathe for watching them; Spencer is slumped against Ryan's shoulder by the time the song finally ends, teary-eyed with laughter.

 

Brendon takes on Jackie, and unsurprisingly, ends up leaving her in the dust as soon as he gets the hang of how to play.  Jackie throws her hands up in exasperation; Brendon takes a dramatic bow, beaming as they all burst into applause.

 

Spencer is the biggest surprise.  He starts out looking awkward and embarrassed, but actually turns out to be _good, _apparently as much to his surprise as anyone else's.  He's up against Crystal, who obviously thought she had another easy win in the bag, and she's left wide-eyed and incredulous when he actually ends up beating her pretty soundly.

 

Jon is only even still in the competition on a technicality, since he beat Ginger primarily on the grounds that she was laughing too hard to see the screen, and Brendon doesn't even have to _try _to knock him out.  Jon tips an imaginary hat and steps back, leaving Brendon and Spencer to face off for the final round.

 

"Prepare to die," Brendon tells Spencer confidently.  Spencer narrows his eyes.

 

On the sofa next to Ryan, Jon quietly whistles the showdown-at-high-noon spaghetti-western theme music, and the round begins.

 

It's kind of awesome to watch, actually.  They decide to go best-of-three, increasing the difficulty each time.  They're cheating shamelessly right from the start, shoving and laughing and trying to make each other fall or screw up.  Brendon is obviously the better player, although not by nearly as much as Ryan would have guessed he would be—but he's also easier to distract, and Spencer takes full advantage, teasing and pushing and belting out loud, off-key renditions of Disney songs at the top of his lungs in annoying counterpoint with the song they're attempting to dance to.

  
Brendon still manages to take the first round, but Ryan jumps into the fray for the second round out of loyalty to Spencer, and stands next to Brendon's dance-pad making nonsense noises and waving his hands between Brendon and the screen to block his view.

 

"Unfair, assholes!" Brendon shouts, laughing and trying to shove Ryan out of his way.  "Jon, _help me!"_

 

Jon takes over the task of trying to distract Spencer, which isn't all that difficult, considering Spencer is laughing too hard at Brendon by now to be doing very well, himself, but Ryan is _way _more annoying than Jon could hope to be on his best day, and Spencer takes the round.

 

In the end, Brendon wins the last round--and rightfully so--but it's a close call.  He and Spencer collapse into a laughing, exhausted tangle of limbs on the floor, still half-heartedly shoving and bickering at each other. 

  
Ryan stands back and watches.  Secretly, this is his very favorite kind of Spencer: relaxed and playful and full of fun.  Not that there's anything wrong with responsible Spencer, or fiercely-protective Spencer, or dryly-amusing Spencer, or even bitchy-and-sarcastic Spencer.  But _this _is the Spencer Ryan likes best of all, and he can't quite help staring a little. 

 

It's just…nice.  Spencer should laugh like this more often. 

 

It's Brendon who brings this side out of him most easily, and suddenly Ryan finds himself wondering why the two of them stopped at just That Weekend. 

 

They're good together.  They would _be _good together.   

 

Ryan's stomach clenches at the thought, and he looks away. 

 

He goes home that night and reads for three hours online, a really long, involved GSF with a slow build-up, a lot of tension, and rough undercurrents of jealousy.

 

It doesn't make him feel any better. 

 

—

 

Pete's return salvo arrives the morning they leave for Europe.  It's a snippet from yet another raunchy GSF, this one prominently featuring Jon Walker's tongue in a capacity that Ryan has never actually considered that a tongue could be used for.  Ryan learns a new word: felching.

 

He growls low in his throat, and fires up his brand-new Delicious account.  He runs a tag-search for "Pete/Patrick," and then a secondary one for "BDSM."  If Pete wants to play dirty, Ryan can play dirty.

 

He cc's Patrick on the email.

  
Then he goes to see if he can find the fic that felching snippet came from, because he'd really kind of like to read the rest of that story.  Thank god for Google.

 

—

 

Ryan hates trans-Atlantic flights.

 

He's twitchy in his seat, he can't help it.  Even _Brendon _is looking at him funny, which.  Seriously.  _No room to talk, _okay?

 

Still.  He's actually driving _himself _a little nuts right now, so he can't blame Brendon for being confused.  He doesn't even have a good reason for his behavior—the sad truth is, he just wants to be reading.  He'd gotten all involved in this really massive, weird gay college AU, but with _vampires, _and he'd had to stop reading right at a really good part, and it's kind of making him crazy not knowing what happens next.  (Flighty music-student Brendon has been _captured, _okay, by a roving band of vampires led by the evil Gabe Saporta—Ryan will never again be able to throw up his fangs without seeing this story in his head—and Spencer, Ryan, and Jon are about to join forces with intrepid art-professor Gerard Way and his brother Mikey who is _secretly evil,_ except they don't actually know that, and they think they're going to rescue Brendon but Mikey totally has some other sinister plan, and Brendon's only real hope is the tiny-but-formidable Professor Stump over in Music Theory, who has mysterious powers Ryan does not yet understand, but who is currently being distracted by his creepy-yet-endearing stalker, Pete.  Ryan is _hooked, _okay, he _can't help it, _and also for some reason the weirdest stories seem to have all the hottest sex scenes_._)

 

And now here he is, stuck on an airplane for way-the-fuck-too-many hours, and his laptop is right in front of him, and he can't _read _the fucking thing, because Brendon is sitting next to him, and has a really annoying habit of trying to read over other people's shoulders.

 

At the moment, Brendon is playing with one of those annoying little cheap plastic handheld games—he picked up a whole bunch of them at a Wal-Mart somewhere ages ago, and now they materialize at odd times to annoy the populace with their high-pitched robotic beeping sounds—and he seems unusually engrossed, even for Brendon.  He's chewing on one corner of his lower lip, pausing thoughtfully before each button he pushes.

 

"Okay," Ryan says.  "Fine, all right.  I'll ask.  What the hell are you playing?"

 

They all know better than to engage when Brendon has his games out—it only takes the slightest hint of encouragement for him to start trying to beg and/or bully other people into playing _with _him—but Ryan is bored, and needs a distraction in the worst way.  Even electronic Yahtzee is not outside the realm of things he is willing to consider right now.

 

Brendon glances up at him and grins.  "Twenty questions."

 

Ryan rolls that around in his head for awhile.  "By yourself?" he finally asks, skeptical.

 

"Well, yeah.  I mean, you play against the computer.  It asks the questions, you answer, and then it tries to guess your answer."

 

"That's boring," Ryan decides after a moment.  "You should play against me instead."

 

Brendon blinks, honestly startled by that suggestion, and Ryan doesn't blame him.  He's usually the hardest out of any of them to convince to even participate in a game.  He's not sure if he has ever before actually _volunteered_ to play one.

 

The beaming smile Brendon gives him an instant later, though, might be some pretty awesome incentive to do it more often in the future.

 

Brendon tosses his current game away without a backwards glance, and turns to face Ryan, still grinning wide and silly all over his face.  "Okay," he says.  "You want to ask first, or should I?"

 

Ryan is not even totally sure he's ever _played _twenty questions, although he has a vague idea of how it works.  "Um.  You guess first?"

 

Brendon can't seem to stop smiling.  It's really ridiculous how happy he is about a stupid game, honestly.  Ryan bites his lip to avoid grinning back.

 

"Is it a living thing?"  Brendon asks brightly, and Ryan thinks, _Oh.  Right.  I need to pick something._

 

He bites his lip.  "Not...anymore?"

 

Brendon snorts.  "Technically I think you have to stick with yes or no answers."

 

"Fine."  Ryan rolls his eyes.  "No."

 

Brendon cocks a skeptical eyebrow.  "Is it...a corpse?"

 

"Dick.  _No, _it's not a corpse."

 

"Sorry, it was an obvious guess.  Okay.  Is it...uh, bigger than a breadbox?"

 

Ryan stares at him.  "Do you even know what a breadbox looks like, Brendon?"

 

"Hey," Brendon pokes his tongue out, indignant.  "Let me ask the questions, here, Ross."

 

"No.  No, it is not bigger than a breadbox."  Ryan sits back in his chair.  He's losing the battle with his own smile, which is stupid, because this is the most boring game that has ever been invented in the history of _time, _and—

 

—and Brendon's total, childlike delight is kind of addictive.  Ryan did that, _Ryan _made him smile like this, and he did it just by agreeing to play a stupid game, and that's really pretty fucking awesome, and actually, that feeling's kind of addictive, too.  Huh.

 

It takes eighteen questions for Brendon to successfully determine that Ryan's object was a drumstick, and Ryan only takes sixteen before he correctly guesses, "shoelace" for Brendon's.  By that point, Ryan is well and truly _over _this twenty-questions business, so they move on to a weird, non-alcoholic variant of Grandmother's Attic, and then a bizarre mutant version of Name That Tune involving obscure song lyrics and an elaborate made-up points system that Brendon ends up having to write out in tiny ballpoint print across three different airline cocktail napkins just so they can keep it all straight.

 

It's maybe the most fun plane ride Ryan has ever been on.

 

They land at Heathrow in mid-afternoon, and Spencer gives Ryan a curious look when he and Brendon spill off the plane together, still snickering.  Ryan avoids his gaze, feeling weirdly exposed, but Brendon's eyes are bright and happy every time they fall on Ryan for the rest of the day.  Ryan can't help smiling back, just a little, even though he knows that all of this is only making his problems worse.

 

He probably ought to care more than he does. 

 

—

 

The first three days of tour go by remarkably smoothly.  Ryan maybe spends a little too much time holed up in his bunk with his laptop, but the guys are used to him disappearing for hours at a time to write, so nobody asks too many questions, as long as he makes a point of spending some of his time in the common bus areas and doesn't act too weird.

 

Ryan is still struggling with a myriad of completely inappropriate reactions to basically everything his bandmates do these days, but he's been lucky enough not to give anything away so far.

 

He's getting a little complacent, actually.  Which is why he doesn't immediately sense the danger he's in when Pete calls.

 

Ryan is holed up in his bunk again when his Sidekick goes off, and he doesn't even have time to say "hello," before Pete is cackling maniacally in his ear.

 

Something cold slips into Ryan's stomach and curls around itself.  "Pete?"

 

"Oh my god, asshole, you made the biggest tactical error _ever, _you don't even know."

 

Ryan frowns, abruptly uneasy.  "What?" he demands.  "What are you talking about?"

 

Pete laughs again, evil and gleeful.  "You shouldn't have involved Patrick, dude," he manages to choke out through his snickers.  "You should know better than to underestimate him by now.  He's little, but _vicious, _and you are _so fucked,_ it's _awesome—"_

 

Through the paper-thin walls of his bunk, Ryan hears with horrifying clarity the moment when Jon says, "Hey, I got an email from Patrick!"

 

"_Fuck,_" Ryan hisses, and drops his phone, scrambling out of his bunk so fast he slams his head against the upper edge.  "Jon!  Jon, _don't open it!"_

 

He skids out into the lounge, but he's already too late.  Jon is staring at his Sidekick, frowning curiously.  He's also reading.

 

Out loud.

 

"Spencer knelt behind Jon where he lay sprawled, face-down on the bed..."  Jon looks up at Ryan, who is frozen in the doorway, immobilized by shock and horror.  "Dude, what _is _this?"  He looks back at the email.  "Jon arched his back, greedy for more as Spencer fin...um."  Jon's eyes widen sharply, and he clears his throat.  "As, um, Spencer..._fingered him open with gentle hands?  _What the fuck?"

 

Spencer and Brendon are both standing stock-still, Brendon in the kitchenette and Spencer halfway to where Jon is sprawled on the couch.  They are staring back and forth between Jon and Ryan, round-eyed and open-mouthed.

 

"Dude," Jon says faintly.  "This...this is from _Patrick._"  He sounds completely lost.

 

Ryan opens his mouth, closes it again.  He coughs awkwardly.  "There, uh..."  Fuck, Christ, his voice is about two octaves too high and his whole face feels like it's on fire.  "It's stupid," he tries again.  "I—Pete and I got into this stupid—like.  Pornfiction war?"  He can hear the squeaky sound underlying his own words, and he wishes he was dead.  "I, uh...I tried to embarrass him by dragging Patrick into it, and.  This is...um, Patrick's revenge?  I'm—I'm sorry, this is..."

 

No one says anything for a long moment.  Then,

 

"Jon groaned gratefully around Brendon's cock," Jon reads incredulously, "choking a little when Brendon's hips buck up in spite of himself.  It was too much, it was everything Jon had dreamed it would be, Ryan's long slender fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him down onto Brendon's cock, forcing it deeper into his throat. Spencer, kneeling behind him, spreading him open and filling him up..."

 

"Holy _shit,_" Brendon says, and Ryan's voice is not the only one that might be an octave or two too high. 

 

Spencer is staring at Ryan, now, with an unreadable expression that fills Ryan with nameless anxiety. 

 

"Well," Jon says abruptly, too loud, and the strange stalemate suddenly ends:  Brendon goes back to pouring his bowl of cereal, and Spencer breaks his gaze away from Ryan's and continues on his way to the couch.  "This is...some war you have going, here, Ryan."

 

Ryan's hands are shaking, and his face is still way too hot.  "Yeah," he mutters grimly, setting his jaw.  "Yeah, and I promise.  They are both going to _pay _for this."

 

Spencer gives Ryan another unreadable look, but before anybody can say anything, Brendon's Sidekick beeps with a distinctive email alert message.  Instantly, all eyes turn to lock on Brendon's Sidekick.

 

It takes a moment for Brendon to reach out for it, and he fumbles with it a little before managing to open the email.  His eyes skim for a second, then widen, then slow down as he obviously begins to read in earnest.

  
By the time he's finished, his cheeks are flushed pink.  He clears his throat.  "Mine...uh.  Mine's different," he says, and bites his lip.

 

Another short silence rings through the bus lounge.  Ryan wants to sink through the floor, especially when Jon holds out his hand and says, "Let me see."

 

Brendon hands over the Sidekick, his lips twitching slightly in spite of himself as if he can't decide whether or not he is supposed to be laughing right now.

 

Jon coughs.  "Ryan stared at Brendon, his eyes dragging hotly over the thin satin panties that were barely doing anything to contain his hard cock," he reads, _aloud, _because obviously he has no shame and also wants Ryan to die of humiliation.   "Brendon squirmed under his gaze, skin flushed and tingling, feeling torn open and exposed and so hard he could hardly breathe.  'Look at you,' Ryan said roughly, and Brendon shivered, biting his lip.  'Look at you, standing there like this where anyone could come in, where anyone could see.  You _want _it, don't you—you _want _me to see you like this, want Jon and Spencer to come in here and find us.  You want us to see you, to touch you, to _take_ you.'  Brendon's head tipped back, baring his throat helplessly to Ryan's gaze, and he panted harshly for a long moment, unable to catch his breath.  'Say it,' Ryan demanded, and Brendon couldn't help himself.  'Yes,' he breathed, and felt his cock jerk against cool satin.  'Yes, I want it, please.  Please_.'_"

  
Ryan makes a strangled sound, half hysterical laughter and half utter mortification.  He's going to kill Patrick fucking Stump.  He's going to _kill _him.

 

Spencer is staring at Ryan again, _staring, _hard, and Ryan is about two seconds from hyperventilating because Spencer _knows._  Ryan doesn't know how he knows, he can't possibly know, this is just a stupid porn war, that's all, there's no reason to suspect that it's anything more—but Spencer _knows._ 

 

Spencer's Sidekick beeps shrilly, loud and jarring in the suddenly-charged atmosphere.  Spencer reaches for it, his eyes still locked on Ryan all the while.

  
Across the room, Brendon sinks weakly down into the bench, eyes flicking from Ryan to Spencer to Jon as if he can't quite believe this conversation is actually happening.  He doesn't say anything, though, to stop Spencer when Spencer clears his throat and starts to read.

 

"'Just relax,' Brendon whispered, and Spencer whimpered as he felt the ties around his...wrists...pull tight...."  Spencer breaks off, flushing red himself, and Ryan sees him exchange a quick glance with Brendon, sheepish and amused.  "Uh...pull tight, tethering his hands to the headboard.  The blindfold—"

  
Brendon coughs faintly, and Spencer bites his lip, smiling a tiny secret smile before continuing to read.

 

"—The blindfold surrounds him in darkness, but he can still feel everything, feel Brendon's hands ghosting over his chest and thighs, feel the heavy weight of Jon and Ryan's stares sliding over his skin.  He can hear, too, and it's making him crazy not to be able to move, to hear the slick sounds and soft hitches of breath as Brendon opens himself for Spencer's cock, to hear Jon's soft groan and Ryan's shaky hiss and know that they can see, they can see everything Spencer can't.  He feels vulnerable like this, helpless—they could do anything to him, anything they wanted—but then Brendon is sinking down onto his cock, and fuck, he's so tight, so hot and wet around Spencer, and then he's riding him, hard and fast and Spencer can't breathe.  Ryan and Jon are watching, watching this, watching _them, _and just like that, Spencer is ready to come."

 

"Wow," says Jon, after a minute.  "There is seriously a whole side of Patrick I didn't even know about."

 

"Everybody has secrets," Spencer puts in, eyeing Ryan thoughtfully.

 

On cue, Ryan's Sidekick beeps faintly from the floor outside his bunk.  Brendon actually chokes on a nervous giggle in the resulting silence, and Ryan drops his face into his hands.  There is no way in hell he's going to go and look at that email.  None.

 

Spencer pushes himself suddenly to his feet, and he's brushing past Ryan before Ryan can even process anything but the feel of Spencer's body sliding along his side, too close in this moment, too solid and warm and _real._  His breath ghosts across Ryan's cheek, his fingers dragging lightly along Ryan's shoulder, and then he's gone, and when he comes back, Ryan's Sidekick is in his hands.

 

"We all got to star in our very own kinky pornos," he says, too casual, and the brush of his hand against Ryan's hip as he wriggles past again feels deliberate.  "Don't think you're getting out of it." 

 

Ryan's knees want to give out, humiliation and hysteria and panicked arousal all spiraling together in a frantic, overwhelming wave.  He manages to stay standing only because he suspects that any moment now, he's going to need to _run like hell._

 

"The subject line says 'Having fun yet?'" Spencer informs them, and then begins to read.  "Ryan melted into the bed, his entire body going boneless beneath the touch of six insistent hands—"

 

Ryan freezes, a strangled sound of mortification forcing its way out of his throat, because, _Jesus, _he fucking _knows this one, _he has this fucking story _saved on his laptop, _fucking _Christ._ 

 

Spencer eyes him narrowly, but just keeps reading.  Jon, on the other hand, cocks his head slightly and stares at Ryan with something that looks a lot like sudden awareness.  Ryan looks away.

 

"—and it was okay, it was okay that he didn't know what he was doing, that he was too skinny and too bony and too much of a _virgin, _because they were all here with him, all staring at him so hungrily and touching him so gently, and there was nothing to be afraid of here, because they would keep him safe.  'Ryan,' murmured Spencer against his lips, and Ryan gasped as one of those hands slipped lower, as knowing fingers teased gently between his cheeks.  'I've wanted this for so long.'  'We all have,' Jon whispered, and Brendon didn't try to say anything at all, just cupped Ryan's face in his hand and turned him until he could lick into Ryan's mouth.  One slick finger slipped inside, then, and Ryan gasped—it felt strange and full and _perfect, _and he whimpered helplessly, writhing on Spencer's finger while he sucked on Brendon's tongue.  'Yeah,' murmured Jon, scattering hot kisses across Ryan's chest.  'Yeah, just like that.'"

 

"Whoa," says Brendon shakily, when Spencer finishes reading. 

 

Ryan never wants to look at any of them again.  Tense silence fills the air for a long moment, and then the bus jolts to a stop, startling them all.

 

Jon coughs.  "Okay.  So.  We're here, I guess."

 

"Yeah," says Spencer, and he sounds contemplative in a way Ryan doesn't like, but Ryan refuses to look.  "We've got some time before soundcheck, and I've got some stuff I needed to run out after.  Anybody want anything while I'm out?"

 

And just like that, everything is—well, not _normal, _Ryan doesn't know how anything could possibly feel _normal _right now, but.  Better.  Less fraught.  Less _sexual._

 

"I'll come with you," Brendon says, "just let me get my shoes."  Spencer doesn't object, and Ryan realizes all at once that he's about to be left alone with Jon—Jon, who is still giving him that weird look from earlier, and for that matter, who started all this Story-Time shit to begin with—and that is not cool.  He doesn't want to go with Spencer and Brendon either, though.

 

"I've got to run over to The Cab's bus for a few minutes," he says, as steadily as he can.  "I'll be back in plenty of time for soundcheck, though."

 

Spencer smiles like he knows what Ryan is doing, but Ryan doesn't care.  He hightails it off the bus like the hounds of hell are after him, and doesn't even bother feinting toward the bus he claimed to be visiting.  He just flees.

 

—

 

He returns to the bus as close to soundcheck as it is possible to get without being a total dick and leaving everybody to wonder if he's going to show up at all.  He tries to be nonchalant about it, like he's totally forgotten the entire weird porn-reading business from earlier, that's how completely unimportant it was, seriously—but that plan falls apart the instant he sees what's actually going on inside.

 

Jon is sitting in the bench with Ryan's laptop—_Ryan's laptop—_open on the table in front of him.  (Ryan can tell it's his laptop because of the sparkly pink interlocking 'R's Brendon "monogrammed" onto the case.  He'd done all of their laptops, actually, one day when nobody was looking, because Brendon is a menace with that Bedazzler.) 

 

Spencer and Brendon are sitting on the couch, very close together, apparently very engrossed in the story that Jon is reading out loud to them.

 

It's the fucking virgin-porn story from earlier.  Ryan should have known Jon had figured him out.  He should have fucking _known._

 

Ryan turns around and tries to run away again, but Spencer is some kind of secret ninja or something, because he's blocking the door before Ryan can get there.  Ryan could fight him for it, but that would mean _touching _him, and—

 

God.  He just wants to die, that's all.  Just die, right here on the floor of the bus, from total and abject humiliation, and is that too much to fucking ask, or what?

 

"Hey, Ryan," Jon says cheerfully, and he has the nerve to sound fucking _casual _about this, what a fucking prick.  "Hope you don't mind me borrowing your stash.  I wanted to know what happened next, you know?"

 

"You...fuck _you, _you—I.  Why.  Why would—?"

 

Ryan can't even grit out anything resembling a full sentence, and fuck, there are actual _tears _of humiliation burning in the corners of his eyes, and this—this is the worst moment of his entire life, right here.

 

"Hey," Brendon says gently.  He's no longer sitting on the couch, but he seems aware that this is not a good time to offer Ryan, like, a _hug _or whatever, either, so he's sort of just standing helplessly in the middle of the lounge.  He smiles crookedly when Ryan manages to drag his eyes up to Brendon's face.  "You have untold kinky depths, Ryan Ross.  It's kind of awesome."

 

Ryan buries his face in his hands.  The tears threaten to spill over, and he hates himself—he fucking _hates _himself—and he is _not _going to cry right now, he just _isn't._  He's already more than mortified enough.

 

"It...I didn't—it just happened," he forces out miserably.  "I know it's—I _know, _I just.  I didn't mean to."

 

"We did," Spencer volunteers unexpectedly from behind Ryan.  "We totally meant to.  Jon said, 'Am I the only one who thought that porn was kind of hot?' and I said, 'I did, too,' and Brendon said, 'I was sort of wondering if it would be really freaky for me to go, like, try to find those ones on the internet?' and Jon said, 'I'm pretty sure Ryan actually has that virgin one at least, he recognized it before you even read it,' and then we all decided, very intentionally, to break into your computer and find it and read the rest."

 

Ryan's brain refuses to make any sense of that for a second.

 

"It took us awhile to find it," Jon adds, deliberately nonchalant.  "Because of how many there were to go through."  He lets a short silence follow that statement for a moment, and then says, "So.  Where were we?"

 

"Spencer had just walked up behind Ryan and wrapped his arms around his waist to hold him still," Brendon replies helpfully, and Ryan is just getting ready to make a break for the bunks, absolutely unable to take another moment of this torture, when—

 

—when Spencer's arms suddenly slide around his waist from behind, holding him in place.

 

Everything goes perfectly, perfectly still.  The game has just changed dramatically, and they all know it.

 

"Okay," Jon says, very quietly, a moment later.  "Okay.  Um...'Don't go,' Spencer whispered in Ryan's ear, and Brendon moved to stand in front of Ryan, to pin him in place between them so he couldn't get away."

 

In the lounge, Brendon takes a halting step forward, almost involuntary, but he catches himself immediately and hesitates.  Ryan swallows thickly, and glances at Brendon's face.

 

He isn't sure what his own expression looks like right now—probably splotchy-faced and teary-eyed and generally pretty fucking unattractive—but something in it seems to tell Brendon something important, because he sucks in a shaky breath, and then makes his way over to stand in front of Ryan.

  
Ryan is terrified, and abruptly so turned on that he can hardly stay upright.  Spencer's arms around his waist are holding up more of his weight than they should be.

 

When Jon resumes reading, his voice is hushed.  "'Please,' Brendon added, sliding his hands up into Ryan's hair and moving closer.  'Don't run away.' Ryan moaned, and let Brendon tilt his face up until they were breathing together.  He'd been waiting for this for so long."  

 

Ryan can't move as Brendon's fingers come up, sliding gently into his hair.  He can't believe this is happening.  This can't be happening. 

 

"Brendon moaned and flicked his tongue gently across Ryan's lower lip," Jon reads unsteadily.  His voice has gone hoarse and husky, now.  Ryan would look over at him, but he can't take his eyes off of Brendon's face.  He also can't remember how to breathe.

 

Brendon doesn't seem to be breathing, either.  Ryan can feel his fingers trembling where they're tangled in his hair, and his eyes are fixed on Ryan's mouth, pupils blown.  It's maybe the hottest thing Ryan has ever seen, and he's inches from whimpering, right out loud.

 

Brendon's gaze flicks up, just for a second, flashing a question over Ryan's shoulder, and Spencer's breath hitches audibly, his hips twitching forward, bucking gently against Ryan.  Ryan exhales sharply, and Brendon makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat.  His eyes come back to Ryan's mouth, dazed and a little unfocused, and his tongue darts out to sweep over his own bottom lip, and then he's leaning in.  His breath brushes over Ryan's mouth, and Ryan tilts his head, straining forward slightly in Spencer's arms, and fuck, he wants this _so much— _

  
The sound of the bus door shocks them all out of the frozen moment, and Brendon scrambles backward, away from Ryan, with panicked eyes and a deep, painful flush.

 

_This is not that dream, _Ryan thinks wildly, and he wants to cry.

 

"Um.  Soundcheck?"  Zack sounds weird and uncertain, and Ryan doesn't care.  He yanks himself free of Spencer's arms and runs for the bunks.  He can still feel Brendon's breath ghosting over his lips, Spencer's hips shifting against him.  He can still hear Jon's voice, raspy and shaking and so, so hot, and....

 

_Shit._ 

 

Ryan buries his burning face in his pillow, and refuses to let himself wonder how he is ever going to look any of them in the eye again. 

 

—

 

They soundcheck with _Lying, _and Ryan almost doesn't survive the experience.   Brendon sounds like _porn, _all breathless and turned on, and his voice actually cracks while he's trying to get through, "_Am I who you think about in bed?"_ and then on "_a hotter touch, a better fuck_," Ryan's entire body shudders involuntarily and he has to take a step back away from the mic in order to avoid humiliating himself in front of all the techs with the groan he can't quite bite back.  Plus, Spencer's eyes are burning into the back of Ryan's neck the entire time, and Ryan feels like his entire body is flying apart.

 

Somehow—Ryan will never really know how—they manage to make it through the show.  Jon lets his fingers brush purposefully against Ryan's on their way back to the bus, and when Spencer says, "Hotel night," in a suspiciously even, level voice, nobody can really find anything to say in response. 

 

Zack drops them at the door of the bus, telling them, "Five minutes," before going off to get the van, and Ryan's hands are shaking as he tries to collect his bag from the bunks without accidentally letting his body touch anybody else's in the process. 

 

They end up in the lounge, staring at each other in a sort of charged, tense silence for what feels like a very long time before Zack's careless knock at the door shatters the moment.

  
Brendon bites his lip and watches Ryan.  Ryan can feel him looking, but doesn't know what to do or say.

 

"We should go," Jon says, finally, and then walks very deliberately over to the table and picks up Ryan's laptop.  Spencer breathes out sharply, and when Ryan risks a glance at him, he's sort of smiling.

 

Someone's fingers tangle easily with Ryan's on the way to the van, and it doesn't even matter whose they are.

 

—

 

Spencer's mouth is hot against the back of Ryan's neck, his arm a heavy weight across Ryan's hip.  Brendon's leg is wedged companionably between Ryan's knees, and the back Jon's warm hand is brushing rhythmically against Ryan's skin as he traces lazy patterns on Brendon's chest.

  
This...this might be the best moment of Ryan's life.  Right here.

 

"You," Brendon says drowsily, "are very, very good at that for a beginner, Jonathan Jacob Walker."

 

Jon's low laugh ruffles Brendon's hair.  "I never actually said I was a beginner, O Great Naughty Gay Yoda.  I'm sorry to disappoint you."

  
Ryan's jaw drops, and Brendon's does the same.  "You're gay?  How did we not know you were gay?  _Why _did we not know you were gay?"

 

"I don't like labels," Jon says comfortably.  "I like kisses, and I like sex, and I like snuggles.  Why should I pick and choose who I'm willing to let provide me with these things?"

 

There is a short silence while everyone digests this little nugget of logic.  "Okay," Ryan says, a moment later.  "As long as we're asking questions—Brendon?  Spencer?  Why did you guys never actually hook up?  You like each other, you spent your weekend together, and then just...nothing?  Or—"  He pauses, suddenly alarmed.  "You _didn't _hook up, did you?  We didn't just get in the middle of something between you guys, did we?"

 

Spencer laughs, a low rumble against Ryan's back.  "Make a note:  Ryan babbles after sex."

 

"Noted," Brendon agrees, amused.  "It was really just the one weekend.  I would have loved to try for more, but as far as I knew, Spencer was just experimenting.  I didn't want to put him in a weird position by asking, especially since I was pretty sure he had a good reason for wanting to know about gay sex, and that reason was named Ryan Ross."

 

Spencer lifts his head, grinning at Brendon over Ryan's shoulder.  "I would have totally gone for it.  That weekend was amazing, I pretty much thought about it all the time."

  
Brendon beams.  "So, in the spirit of full disclosure, _Ryan, _how long has this pornfiction addiction of yours been going on?"

 

Ryan flushes, still embarrassed in spite of everything.  "A few weeks," he mumbles.  "Pete sent me one as a joke, and then...I don't know.  It was—I shouldn't have even read it, I felt like such an asshole, suddenly having all these _thoughts _about my best fucking friends, and it was just—"

 

Spencer, Brendon, and Jon all burst out laughing.  Ryan flinches, suddenly tense. 

 

"Knock it off," Spencer tells him, squeezing his hip tightly for a moment.  "We're not laughing _at _you.  It's just...have you even been paying _attention _to this conversation?  Raise your hand if you've had inappropriate fantasies about your bandmates before Ryan's porn war was discovered."

 

Spencer raises the hand that had been on Ryan's hip, and Brendon and Jon both smilingly raise their own hands, as well. 

 

"I used to get off to fantasies about Spencer drumming," Jon volunteers cheerfully.  "Plus, anybody who claims they can look at Brendon's mouth or Ryan's hands without thinking about sex is a _liar._"

 

"Ryan Ross is how I figured out I was bisexual," Brendon admits, grinning.  "Then I totally kept Spencer naked in my house for fifty-six of the best hours of my entire life, which has been a fond bedroom memory for me ever since.  Jon was the only one I felt guilty about, but that's because I thought he was straight."

 

Spencer squeezes Ryan's hip again.  "See?  You're an idiot."

 

"Well," Brendon points out reasonably.  "In some ways, he's the smartest of us all, I think.  I mean, I may have wanted to lick each of you _individually_ or whatever, but _my _brain hadn't ever actually gone to the group sex place before now.  He may be late joining the party, but when he shows up, he really does bring the best party games.  You know?"

 

There is a short silence, while Ryan tries not to blush. 

 

"This is true," Jon finally decides, contemplative.  "Speaking of which."  He lifts his head, eyeing Ryan over Brendon's shoulder with a wicked gleam in his eye.  "What, exactly, are we planning to do to get back at Patrick?"

 

—

 

The next afternoon, Patrick Stump receives an email full of picture files.  The photos are obvious without being explicit—four sets of bare feet and legs, all intertwined; multiple sets of fingers linked together over a bare chest; arms around waists and hands splayed against naked thighs.  No faces are shown, but a couple of recognizable tattoos are visible in several of the frames.

 

There is no text to the email itself, but the subject line says simply: _We win._

  _Fin._


End file.
